


shut down slow (as though it was an easy thing to do)

by orphan_account



Category: Rookie Blue
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-10 12:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17425604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: For three weeks she'd been riding shotgun, wound up beside him like she was ready to detonate, and she hadn't said a single word about anything, not counting the weather.





	shut down slow (as though it was an easy thing to do)

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written and posted to livejournal in December 2011.

Andy usually complicates Sam's life in a matter of ways, most of which are the result of having a personality that barrels forward at the rate of a runaway train. She's all energy, all the time, all trapped and loaded like it's coiled up inside of her. 

Then he hears, passed from one nosy mouth to the next, that Callaghan and McNally? Splitsville. Yeah, almost three weeks back -- apparently they'd had some kind of lover's spat not quite worth reconciling, and two things about that piss Sam off: one, rumor has it that Callaghan took out his dumbassery on Rosatti, and, _yeah_ , not exactly in a space to judge here, but at least Sam can say that he hadn't let McNally screw things up while she was practically footing it down the wedding aisle already. And, two, he hadn't heard it from her. For three weeks she'd been riding shotgun, wound up beside him like she was ready to detonate, and she hadn't said a single word about anything, not counting the weather.

Now he's the one casting irritated glances at traffic, head constantly swiveled in the direction that is not Andy or her bouncing knee, her frequently tapping fingers. Getting over Callaghan, he figures, one day at a time, and what the hell are they even partners for if she's not sharing things like that? It's not even personal -- alright, yeah, it's personal -- but he's got to be able to count on her in hostile situations, doesn't he, and if her mind's jostling back to her broken-hearted detective with every other thought, that's on _him_.

Sam blares the horn when an idiot driver swerves out in front of them. 

"Geez," Andy breathes, eyeballing him like maybe he's the one who should have his license revoked. He just gestures out the car window. Idiot driver, hello. Currently doing 10 over, too, and were Sam even just the littlest bit more annoyed, he'd tag him. But that requires time and then the resulting headache of paper work. Not hardly worth it.

He takes a right turn, gets them going down a tree-lined residential road, one of the few in the area that manages to not look entirely burned out. His eyes are scanning their surroundings, habit more than anything, and Andy's still staring at him. That he can feel. "What's with you today?" she asks, dead serious. "You're, I don't know. _Aggressive_. More than usual, anyway," she adds as this blown out murmur, like she thinks she's being cute.

His eyebrows lift high in amusement. Right. He's the aggressive one. That's why he's sat here for going on a string of incredibly pathetic months doing nothing while she'd gone off and found herself a hubby-to-be, even though she's been swimming in his head all this time, messy and complicated. But, yeah, that whole stasis thing he's working on, that's been really _aggressive_ of him. It would've been really friggin' aggressive, too, if she would've gone through with the wedding -- he might've shown up in a nice tux. Admired the floral arrangements. Maybe got the happy couple a toaster, 'cause Callaghan -- he seems like the toaster type. 

Sam flicks a smile her way. "Is that right." He's not in the mood for conversation, so he lets his disinterested tone, the dry statement of it all, derail things for him, but of course it's not that easy. Not when she's eager to open up for the first time in -- well, look at that, since leaving Callaghan. Three weeks, and now she's ready to share.

"Uh, _yeah_ ," she says, with a hollow laugh, one of those replacements for the word _duh_ that is as grinding as ever. 

"Okay then," he gives back, easy, hands sliding over the steering wheel. They pull into a gas station at the edge of the neighborhood.

" _Okay then_?" she parrots, this hard, sarcastic feel to it. "What does that even mean? You know, you can be so vague sometimes. So _cryptic_. Why not just come out and say what you mean? Seriously, what's the point of saying something if you're not even going to be real about it?"

So, they're talking circles around the Callaghan thing, then. That's fine with him. 

He cuts the engine, finally gives her a look she can hold. 

"It means what it means. It means, _okay_ ," he stresses, still not willing to give an inch here. "It means," he says, searching, "don't go making a big deal outta nothing." He stares for a moment more, then climbs out of the car. 

She follows right up after him, at his heels, never mind that he's taking a direct path towards the men's room. It's outdoors, and he half expects, what with his reoccurring lousy luck as of late, that the thing will be out of service or locked or otherwise occupied, but he tugs on the handle and finds it opening with no complaints. The small victories, ladies and gentlemen. He shoots Andy a vaguely smug, mostly pleased look over his shoulder while he slips through, one that silently gloats, but she knocks it off his face by following right in after him.

"Yeah. McNally. Appreciate your love for conversation and all, but this is the _men's_ room." Like that isn't enough, he holds the door back open for her, has his eyebrows leaping in the outdoors direction. "Let's continue this in -- let's say three minutes, how about that? That work for you?" A smile is tacked on for good measure. Polite.

Instead, she throws her arms over her chest, gets all combative and mean-looking, refusing to budge.

Inside there is a sigh that blows through his body, sweeps right up 'til its rattling in his ears, but he keeps up an outer visage of indifference. He lets the door swing shut behind him -- it sticks, run down as this place is, then creaks real loud and snaps closed, taking with it a whole lot of sunlight -- and starts tugging at his uniform pants, aiming to scare her off that way. He's not above petty behavior, alright.

She looks away, scoffing. "Really?" 

"Uhh, _you_ followed _me_. You gotta problem with it, you," he points out, belt flicking open now, "can leave."

"Mature," she bites out, to the wall. 

"Like I said. You can leave. Actually, yeah, I'd kinda prefer it." He smiles real big, all show. "Shy bladder." That has her frown pulling into a grimace, like she's got something to be offended by here.

"I just want to talk. Okay? For two seconds. Two measly seconds, and then you can go back to blaring at pedestrians, because that's _really_ fun to be a part of."

Not that she can even see, because she's got the head-butting tactics of a four-year-old, but he gives her another smile, only this one's got some bite to it. "You don't like the way I do things, you know what to do." 

That must touch a nerve; she finally looks his way, flames practically spitting out of her eyes. "What are you saying?"

He just shrugs, makes his eyes go all wide. She's the one hinting at it here, he's just following along.

"Okay," she says. Her mouth gets thin while she tries out a nod. "Great. So, I should, what? Start riding with Oliver more, is that it? Or Dov or Traci or anyone that's not you, basically, that's what you're saying?"

"What do you want here? You want a partner who's gonna make nice all the time, I suggest Diaz. Kid's practically a golden retriever."

"I don't _want_ Chris." 

"What _do_ you want?"

"I don't know, okay!" Then, fast, "Actually, no, you know what? How about a _fiance_ who doesn't _cheat_ on me? Just for starters. That'd be really frickin' great!"

Sam presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose, actually has to push back this swell of annoyance. Here's the thing: he _warned_ her about Callaghan. Right from the start, what did he say? That Callaghan was trouble. And here she is, how many months later, actually torn up over the sad sack when he'd _told_ her what the hell to expect out of the guy. Granted, the engagement thing? That came out of left field, one hell of a surprise. If she'd just listened, though, stopped being so stubborn all the time thinking she's got something to prove.

(And there's something about her when she gets like this, all beaten down and spiraling, that cracks him wide the hell open. Protective, yeah, she was his _rookie_ ; on top of that, she's still so damn new it kills him, but -- it's _more_.)

"Or, hell," she's still saying, working herself into a mood, "I'd kinda like _one_ day out of the week where I can do my job without being in some kind of mortal danger, because that? Getting a _little_ old." She doesn't stop there, though, she keeps going, topic switched over to whichever gossip headline she's starred in lately. 

Sam takes a step forward, holds out a hand like that might actually calm her. Hasn't ever worked before, but, hey. First time for everything, right? 

"McNally," he tries, voice going soft.

She talks right over it, doesn't even look his way, just keeps up with the ranting and the arm waving and he keeps up, too, moving close, moving until she's got nowhere to jab those hands of hers, nowhere to look but at him -- they're staring now and she's stopped talking -- she's catching a clue, this one, she's catching on. "Sam?" 

It's not exactly an invite, but she's not the asking type, anyway, so he just does it -- presses right up on her, keeps pressing until she's backed up against the wall, which he leans against with his hands braced on either side of her. She goes slack real quick, pliant instead of resistant -- friggin' miracle right there -- and he's thinking here that maybe he'll shrug this whole thing off if it comes to that. Chock it up to hands-on training, _how to calm the emotionally strung out_ , maybe 'McNally, a little restraining is exactly what you needed, trust me.' -- except her eyes go straight to his mouth and it's like, shit, maybe she _is_ the asking type, what the hell does he know?

Maybe, yeah, but what she definitely is -- a mile long list, _that_ \-- she is definitely the taking type, this is a fact, because the next thing he knows she's curled her hands around his arms, hauled herself close, and then -- world's longest pause in between -- she kisses him. There's nothing sweet about it either, not hardly, because she's pissed still, fighting back in a different, messier way. Sam is absolutely okay with that. One of her hands leaves his arm, wraps instead around his neck, and the other gets stuck between their bodies which is just as well because she grips at his uniform, hooks her fingers right in and holds so tight it pulls against him. 

The wall is cold and tiled, grayed from years of crime, grime, and god knows what else, but he wraps his arms around her, hoists her right up against it. A-okay move, he guesses, because she breaks their kiss, throws her head back as much as she can. She's arching next to the paper towel dispenser, throat all exposed and perfect for his liking, so he kisses her there, then higher up until she's making noises and shifting around and driving him nuts because his holster's on and _her_ holster, and it's too much space between them, too much in the way.

She drops back down to her feet, slides right down the wall, that hand that was between them going instead to his loosened belt. He kisses her again, can't believe it's happening, that two minutes ago she was nipping at his heels and now she's nipping, actually nipping, biting down on his lip while she works to remove whatever's between them. His holster slides first, going down with a hard, heavy weight between them, slithering until it hits the floor with this dull thud, and then she's tugging at his pants, top button already popped open.

He circles them around, gets them over to the wash area; a nice, flat surface. Her hands move to his vest, start tugging until it's loose -- he slips out of that while she inches up onto the sink, not even caring about the messy pools of water, the stray paper towels, the splattered mirror behind her. She shifts, kicks out a leg that lures him in close so there's no room between them but her holster, still, which he is quick to get rid of. 

"Sam," she breathes out, this almost-nothing noise. She reaches behind her in a lazy recline, braces all her weight on her arms, tilts her face towards the ceiling so she's fluorescent bright.

He feels it all swelling up inside of him, dangerous because they've been here before -- they've been here, and they walked away relatively unscathed that first time, but if they mess things up now it's gonna require one hell of an upwards climb to come back from. 

He kisses her neck, kisses with his mouth open big, getting as much of her as he can. He's pulling off her vest, pulling at her shirt, just tugging at whatever he comes across until finally she's going ramrod straight again, letting her uniform fall from her shoulders. She's shirtless except for the tank she wears underneath, and he makes a quick removal of that -- she shivers when she's down to her sports bra, legs wrapping tighter around him like she thinks that might ward off the cold. 

He catches her eyes, then. She's got her hands at the back of his head, fingers fanned out, and they stop to stare at each other. She swallows hard and he won't stop looking because he's not backing down this time. Maybe she's fresh off her break-up with Callaghan and maybe there's too much on the line for him to go blurting shit out, but she's got to know by now, hell, she's got to _feel_ \-- 

Sam looks away first. He presses his mouth to her collarbone, soft, gets her twitching against him -- her hips knock into his, all sharp 'cause of course she's thin as a rail, McNally is, straight lines where most women have curves. She's sliding her hands down the back of his neck, across the broadside of his shoulders. She works off his uniform shirt, peeling it off with fingers that press and stop and touch all the way down, wherever they can.

She scoots close. He lifts a corner of her sports bra, drags it up her raised arms and over her head, and she's completely topless then, completely and totally bare up top, calling his name, calling out his name and wiggling around like she's got too much energy still. He hooks his fingers in her belt loops, gives it a good, instructive tug; she lifts her hips right up, squirms to help him slide her out of her pants. They wind up tangled near her ankles. She kicks, trying to shake them off, but she's got her shoes laced up still, shit, it doesn't even _matter_ \-- she slips her hand into his pants, goes right for his dick, and -- yeah, _okay_ , McNally is most definitely a _take_ kind of girl, that and then some.

The bathroom door's not looked. He thinks about this for half a second, thinks of some random John off the street peeking in and catching themselves a hell of a show -- Andy with her shoulders tipped way back, tan _everywhere_ \-- but that thought quickly shoves off when she pulls him out, has him blowing out this short, surprised breath instead.

Except -- 

"Wait," he has enough -- well, not _sense_ , obviously, because sense up and left the building three minutes ago, but he stills her with a hand on her wrist. "Andy, hey."

She looks annoyed. The kind usually reserved for right before their shift ends and she's had it up to _here_ with the long car rides. "What?"

He doesn't let go of her wrist; instead he uses his other hand to tap where his back pocket would be. They're working. They're _on the beat_ , for christ's sake. He's not some punk teenage kid with a condom folded at all times between the notes in his wallet.

She gets it, then gives him a look that implies he's wasting her time here and can they please move it along. Typical McNally look, basically. Her shoulders roll -- the view gets decidedly better -- this _who cares_ shrug that gives him a taste of what McNally-as-a-teenager must've been like. "Yeahhhh, really not an issue."

Yeah, it's cute how she thinks that's going to cut it. His eyebrows go high.

"Seriously," she says, rocking forward, impatient and rearing to go, as always. "We're good here."

And that has his eyebrows inching upwards for a whole different reason. Maybe he kind of likes the way that sounds. Maybe it jumps the list of priorities in his mind, so when she leans back in, fingers flexing with purpose around his dick, he grabs her face and kisses her. She gives right back, kissing him once, open-mouthed, then again and again, wound up like hell. She's throwing all her weight into her hanging legs so that she's pressed up against him as much as she can, tangled up and kicking, wide open with her knobby knees hugging at his sides.

Her other hand wraps around the back of his neck now, leverage as much as anything, and she slips forward, tips of her shoes just touching the floor, all the air pushing out of her lungs with this shaky exhale.

 

&

 

Afterward, when the world tumbles back into focus and he's got feeling in his limbs again, she slumps forward, face buried between his neck and shoulder. Her breath, he feels that like it's his own, same with the heartbeat that's coming off one hell of a rush.

And then.

Three seconds later and she's on the rebound. Not that he's so far gone that he'd like it if they did nothing more than have themselves a nice cuddle, not here anyway, but Andy skips the afterglow completely -- moves off him without looking, yanks her clothes back into place all quick like she's got something to be embarrassed about. She goes right to the floor, starts picking up her shirt, the holster. Sam stands there, hands at his sides, empty smile taking over because of course, _of course_ \-- he catches sight of himself in the mirror, though, catches a look he doesn't like so he clears out his emotional bank, just drains the whole thing dry, starts putting himself back together.

McNally pops back up, slipping on her tank top as she appears. She's wearing a small smile, one that softens out Sam's tight movements but doesn't cut out the edge completely.

"So," she says, with another carefully given smile. "Bathroom quickie." Like she's cataloging experiences. Like they're both gonna go home and write about this in their diary, maybe have a powwow with some friends; _Hey, Ollie, guess what I did._

He huffs out a laugh, for her sake. "Yeah," he agrees, and it comes out sounding like nothing. She wants to brush the whole thing off, that's great, it's fine; he'll brush it off. Messed up feelings aside, she's coming out of a relationship that almost led to one hell of a commitment -- she's running scared here, he wandered into the crossfire; it happens. 

Her faces twists up, like she wants to say something else, but she slides her shirt on instead. Starts the buttons from the bottom. "It's just."

He stares back. "What?" 

She shifts. Laughs some, but the awkward kind. "I don't know."

"Okay," he says, extra slow. "You figure it out, you let me know." He goes for his shirt, which he has to shake out after picking it up off the floor near the garbage can. Jesus. He'll probably have to go get hosed down after this. 

Andy shrugs into her vest, pulls at the straps, has her eyes slanted his way the whole time. 

He actually does have to take a leak, thank you, so she gives him a few minutes once they're both dressed, slipping out of the bathroom first. He meets her out front after, gets a smoking cup of coffee pressed into his hand and thinks, wryly, ahhh, some kind of complimentary post-coital peace offering. He's not stupid enough to say that out loud, though the smirk he doesn't bother to hold back must spell it out for him because she gives him a warning stare. 

He fills up the tank while she squeegees the windows, and they circle around each other with conscious disregard, like there's something to be proven here, like nothing's changed.

Back in the car, their doors slam shut one after the other. He sticks his coffee in the cup holder, rubs his hands together to try and get a little stolen warmth back.

"So," Andy says. 

Yeah. Pretty much. He sticks the keys in, but before the engine stirs to life --

" _Wow_ ," Andy goes on. "Your bedside manners? Completely suck. You know, in case you cared about that sort of thing. Not that you would, because -- why would you? You're Sam Swarek. Tough guy. All bottled emotions and void of feelings."

 _Okay._ He sits back, pulling away from the steering wheel. "I have _feelings_."

"Sure, yeah, like today. Grumpy. That was one. Bored. What about aggression? That was a fun one. A reoccurring one. We spend _a lot_ of time with your aggression."

"You done here?" He'd actually like to carry forward with the day, maybe save this particular spat for sometime when he doesn't feel quite so emptied out.

" _This_ is why you're on ice," she says, McNally-style, where she's talking to herself but filling the whole car up with her noise. "This is exactly it."

"I'm on ice?"

"Yes," she exhales, staring out her side of the car.

"What the hell does that mean, I'm on _ice_?"

"You know what? Nothing. Actually, you know the word that comes before 'nothing'? That! That's what it means. Just." She tugs at her seat belt, gets annoyed when it gets stuck. "Forget it."

He smiles, all tight at the corners. Disengaging, he can do. "Okay."

"Okay!" she throws back, glaring out the window again. 

Okay, then.

 

&

 

The rest of the day does not go more smoothly. Go figure. You have sex with your partner in a gas station bathroom and it actually complicates things. You know, more than they already were, and they were already pretty damn complicated.

By the time they've separated, tapped out of the ring for a temporary time out, Sam's running on fumes.

Yeah, but then there McNally is, a casually leaning silhouette against the side of his truck. His eyebrows hook high, because this -- let's just say Hell has a higher chance of freezing over. He figured she escaped out of here with Nash some twenty minutes ago.

She pushes off his truck when she spots him, all body. "Hey," she says -- cool, wary, cop-circling-an-armed-perp voice.

He uses the button to unlock the door, tosses his duffel bag into the passenger seat. "Hey," he gives back.

"Look, I think we should probably talk," she comes right out with, and the way her words jump over each other the whole way through, it snags his attention -- she's scrambling for control, which means he's got her rattled. Rattled is something entirely unrelated to the Callaghan thing. "I know, I know," she says, eyes rolling, words light and at her expense, "nobody likes to hear those words, ever. Too bad."

"Okay." He plays it dumb, guarded, not about to be burned for a second time that night. "What about?"

Her eyes grow real big and she lets out this hard laugh, straight from her throat. "Wow, okay. I did not think you were going to play it like this." Her hands go up, this quick yielding. She backs right off. "Never mind. Have a good night."

She gets turned around, starts heading off towards the lit up part of the parking lot, when something in him just _gives_ \--

"McNally," he calls after her. And she does stop, but it's like her feet are sand bagged, rooted to the ground. Finally she turns around, gives him a stare that says this better be worth it. He jerks his head to the side. "Jump in," he tells her. There might be more to those words than just an offer for a ride. Maybe, if she was wanting to look.

She narrows her eyes, lingers in this moment of indecision like she's sussing the situation out. Copper through and through.

He pretty much spells it out for her, then, intent stupidly clear: "Let me give you a ride home."

She steps his way, eyes getting narrower, almost accusing. She's swaying, just about. "Whose home?" And, yeah, that gets her a grin. 

He says, "Come on," softer now. Less ask, more tell. 

"Oh, so we're talking now, is that it?" she can't help but shoot off, all lip, but he's got her, he can tell.

"You wanna talk?" he asks as she comes up on him, brow going high.

She shrugs her shoulders, hums out an indifferent, high-pitched " _Hm_ ," noise like she's got no real preference. Payback, basically. 

He smiles, takes his own step forward.

Maybe, just maybe, he oughta send Callaghan a freakin' fruit basket or something.

 

&

 

END


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